


lose our better angels

by ilgaksu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7816534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgaksu/pseuds/ilgaksu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surely, he thinks, no one is stupid enough to try and live through this ache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lose our better angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clockworkmoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkmoon/gifts).



At eleven, the Son of Voldemort stands, surrounded by a gaggle of nervous first-years, and he bites his nails, and he wonders how many of them can see the Thestrals. He can’t, but his father can, and when Scorpius - who was a child and had not yet learnt how words can open up old wounds - asked why, his father did not smile. Scorpius’ father never smiled unless he meant it. For this reason and this reason alone, Scorpius always trusted him better than other adults, whose wide-eyed grins when the Malfoys passed by in Hogsmeade never quite masked the naked whites of their eyes on him. 

After all,  _ blood is not a good enough reason to pledge fealty, Scorpius.  _ This had been his father’s first lesson to him. And so Draco Malfoy did not smile. He looked at the portrait of Scorpius’ mother on the table. In it, a wildly younger version of his father, solemn in his best robes, leaned in and whispered something in his mother’s ear; in it, his mother laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and Draco Malfoy watched her like she herself had hung the moon, like she herself had picked out the stars and arranged them in their firmaments. 

When he asked his father about the Thestrals, his father had looked out of the window, across the rising mist of the manor grounds, for a long time. So long, in fact, Scorpius was about to repeat the question. 

“We learn to see the Thestrals once we have learnt what dying means,” his father had said, the light making his eyes unreadable. He did not sugarcoat because Malfoys did not sugarcoat. “I hope it is a long time before you learn, Scorpius.” 

Scorpius did not ask his father if he had loved his mother. Even at eleven, especially at eleven, he already knew the answer. 

*

At fifteen, the Son of Voldemort falls in love, and it feels like dying; the pain in his chest effervescent and sharp and singing so loud he waits for the Thestrals to appear right before his very eyes.  

Surely, he thinks, no one is stupid enough to try and live through this ache. Scorpius, green-blooded, curse-blooded, Slytherin to the spine - Scorpius is anything but stupid. It’s just - it’s just that - 

At fifteen, he sees Albus dip his head to a girl’s ear, and the sudden flare of anger in his chest is so hot and so violent and so irrational Scorpius thinks: what if everyone has always been right about me? Wildly, he thinks of the faces in his parents’ wedding photograph, looking for the lights in their ever-moving eyes to prove him wrong. 

Albus is loud, and his laugh takes up all the space in the room, and his smile takes up all the space in Scorpius’ head, where before Scorpius had kept useful things in their proper places. And so, of course, hugging Albus is weird, and strange, and uncomfortable, all that space gone, but isn’t that just what Albus does anyway? 

His father calls them _inseparable_. Scorpius thinks he wouldn’t like all the space if they were apart. In fact, the thought makes him think of a word: _agoraphobic._

*

At twenty, the Son of Voldemort walks through Muggle London, listening to Albus’ laughter peal. His hand sweats where it’s curled around Albus’, and if Albus thinks it’s gross, he doesn’t let go. They are much more than the men they were named for. They are much more than their fathers ever expected them to be. 

“Your face,” Albus says, snickering, as Scorpius stops and gapes at something for the sixth time in as many minutes. “Your face, Scorpius.”  

“Yours too,” Scorpius says, quietly and without thinking. Albus’ eyes flash in the grey air, sparking at something old and familiar under Scorpius ribcage. It still stings. It turns out you cannot die from it. 

Albus smiles like he means it. _Blood is not a good enough reason to pledge fealty._

  
Scorpius is, in very many ways, his father's son. Scorpius smiles back. 


End file.
